


The Storyteller

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur writes fanfic, Canon Era, Crack, Fluff, Frottage, Humor, M/M, Merlin reads it without permission, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fill, Purple Prose, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-14 22:40:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14778630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: Quite by accident, Merlin discovers that Arthur has been writing smutty fiction involving his manservant. Also by accident, he gets off to it. A lot.





	The Storyteller

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this delicious KinksofCamelot prompt](https://kinksofcamelot.livejournal.com/1806.html?thread=130574#t130574) With many thanks to the OP for the delightful prompt, and to all those who commented on the meme.

 

 

> **The Prince and His Servant**
> 
> _**By Gana Drutherporn** _
> 
> ~o~
> 
> _The servant’s lips were redder than rubies, his hair as black as the deepest jet from the mines of Ebruac - deep, like the ocean blue of his eyes. Deep, like his love for the brave prince he served. “Oh my prince,” Merlin sighed softly as his hands whispered around the massive, muscular haft of Arthur’s mighty member. “Oh, Arthur. Fuck me, please. Drill me with your dastardly dick.”_

_*_

It all started, as far as Merlin could fathom, the third time Princess Wilhelmina came to visit. Arthur had been dreading her visit, but this time the girl was older than she had been on previous occasions, obviously, and brought with her a strange new fascination for literature. At first, whenever Uther admonished him to spend time entertaining the princess, Arthur showed every inclination of following his previous strategy and running off to hunt instead. But after a few days, Merlin noticed that Arthur was becoming more and more inclined to do as he was told. In fact, the princess started to keep Arthur unaccountably occupied. Eventually, the two of them were spending an unseemly amount of time closeted with their heads together, cackling like a pair of teenage girls over a collection of scrolls and quills.

“She’s driving me mad,” Merlin confessed to Gwen as he scuttled between chambers on yet another errand for the princess. “It’s, all oh, Merlin, would you mind, I haven’t any more ink, and oh, Merlin, would you mind, I seem to have run out of parchment? Between fetching ink for her and his royal pratship and running errands for Gaius, I’m run off my feet. And she’s so bloody nice. I hate nice people. Just the sound of her voice makes me want to grind my teeth...”

“Oh, poor you.” Gwen smiled at him sympathetically but then spoilt it by adding, innocently, “Is Arthur not paying you any attention at all, then?”

“Shut up.” He punched her on the arm, but lightly so as not to hurt.

“Ow!” She punched him back. Harder, so that he winced. “You shut up.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll tickle you!”

“No! Anything but that!”

It was about to degenerate into a gratifying play fight but then Arthur, accompanied by said princess, stalked past him and cuffed him over the head with a negligent flick of his hand.

“Ow!” Merlin rubbed his head. “What was that for?”

“Stop distracting Gwen and get on with your chores,” said Arthur, barely breaking stride.

“Entitled prat,” muttered Merlin under his breath, although taking a moment to appreciate the vision of Arthur’s retreating back side, snugly clad in well-fitting leather riding breeches.

“What did you just say?” Arthur stopped and turned. He glowered with that infuriatingly strong-jawed expression that always made Merlin weak at the knees. Which was a scary thought. Because weak knees were only a short step away from kneeling, and kneeling in front of his prince was a mere whisper away from what kept Merlin awake at night, having the sort of dreams that were having a terrible effect on his laundry bill.

“I said, I was just doing that,” replied Merlin, keeping his back and his face straight, and staring at a spot just above Arthur’s left shoulder.

And it got worse. Because, although Uther eventually decided that a mere Sheakspeer, however well connected her family, was not good enough to wed into the Pendragon line, and sent her away, much to Merlin’s relief… despite that, Arthur’s preoccupation seemed to be continuing long after her departure.

In fact, Merlin began to get seriously alarmed. For instance, one morning he stepped into Arthur’s room without knocking as usual, and discovered the prince already at his desk, quill in hand, rather than lolling around alluringly under his bedcovers with his hair clumped in endearing little heaps around his face.

“Breakf-- oh! You’re already awake.” Fighting down a stab of disappointment at not having his usual daily opportunity to grapple his prince in a gratifying tussle thinly disguised as rousing Arthur from his slumber, Merlin frowned. “What are you writing?”

“Nothing.” Arthur put down his quill and shoved the parchment into a drawer of his desk, locking it with a nonchalant twist of the key, which he then threaded onto the keyring that he bore on a chain around his neck. “Just a bit of… um. Poetry.”

“Poetry?” Merlin’s mouth dropped open. “Are you feeling all right? Shall I ask Gaius for a tinct--”

“I’m fine, you impertinent bumpkin.” Arthur rose to his feet. “Now, the stables need sweeping, my armour needs cleaning, and the swords all need polishing.”

Merlin sighed. It was going to be one of those days.

~o~

 

 

> **The Abject Attendant's Apology**
> 
> _**By Gana Drutherporn** _
> 
> ~o~
> 
> _“Oh, My Prince!” choked Merlin, his ripe, rose-red lips writhing wetly around his Master’s Enormous Cock. “You are so wise and just.” He swirled his greedy tongue in great swishy spirals around the Huge Princely Member and…_

“Merlin!” yelled the prince. “Merlin? By all the gods, where is that bandy-legged upstart. Merlin!”

“Coming, sire!” Hastily, Merlin shoved the scroll back under a heap of half-written speeches. He only just managed to reassemble the items on Arthur’s desk in time. He scuttled over to the bed, bent practically double on account of his physiological reaction to the scribbled words in Arthur's unmistakable handwriting, and started vigorously smoothing the covers although they were already perfectly assembled, so that by the time Arthur came in Merlin would be nowhere near the desk. And more importantly, he would have his back turned so that he could fight with his sudden unseemly erection. His own member being non-princely but at this point by no means small.

Good lord! So that was what Arthur and the princess had been giggling about. Filthy, unapologetic smut. Featuring Merlin debauching Arthur in any number of satisfying ways. It was awful, and Merlin should burn the offending scroll immediately. Scratch that. It was brilliant. Merlin couldn’t wait to read more.

*

Weeks passed, and Arthur was definitely still writing. The number of chewed-up quillpens that Merlin kept finding, not to mention the sudden increase in the volume of ink being paid for out of the castle accounts, testified to that. Not to mention the occasional cryptic comments that Arthur came out with. Then there was the distraction, and the muttering under his breath.

Why, only the other day, Merlin had been carrying a heavy load of laundry up the stairs for Gwen when Arthur blundered into him, sending him tumbling down the stairs and spilling laundry everywhere. And instead of apologising, or, given that this was Arthur, scolding Merlin for his own clumsiness, Arthur just asked him if he knew of a rhyme for the word “purple”.

Mildly concussed, not to mention perplexed, Merlin gaped dumbly up at him. And Arthur just shrugged, said “Never mind!” and ran off without even insulting Merlin once.

So, yes, Arthur was definitely still writing. It was driving Merlin to distraction. Just the thought of those few words that he’d read, spelled out in Arthur’s neat royal handwriting, kept Merlin in a constant state of agitation. He needed to read more. So he made a habit of trying to catch the prince in the act of putting quill to parchment, and searching the room for papers, to perhaps get a glimpse of some more of Arthur’s more arresting ideas. But after that first tantalising occasion, Arthur had been very careful to keep his private correspondence safely locked away.

What’s more, every couple of weeks or so an important message would arrive for the prince. The messengers had strict orders to bypass all the castle staff and bring these letters straight to him - whereupon Arthur would closet himself in his chambers and bar anyone from entering. Even Merlin. The whole castle was rife with rumours of a royal romance. If he hadn’t caught a glimpse of the content of those original scrolls, Merlin would also conclude that Arthur was conducting an illicit affair. Maybe he was? Maybe Arthur was wooing Princess Wilhelmina by dint of his flamboyant descriptions of his own wedding tackle. It was an unusual strategy for wooing a princess, for sure, but Merlin would have to be the first to admit that had been remarkably effective at sparking Merlin’s interest in the dimensions of said organ.

But if that was the case, why did Arthur describe Merlin’s hair in such great detail? Why did Arthur’s eyes keep lighting on Merlin while he was doing chores, and roaming all over him as if speculating on the outline of Merlin’s anatomy beneath the clothes?. The whole thing was beyond frustrating, and Merlin definitely needed to get his hands on some more of those damned scrolls as soon as possible.

“Merlin?”

And it didn’t help that he was beginning to notice things about Arthur at the same time - things like the curve of Arthur’s fingers around his sword as he trained, the way Arthur’s skin dipped into muscled dimples at the base of his broad back, and the smooth line of Arthur’s bum when he crouched to deliver a punishing blow to one of the hapless knights. Such things had always been there at the back of Merlin’s consciousness, nagging away at his brain and driving his hand into his night clothes during his weaker moments. But now they were leaching into his daytime thoughts. Front and centre.

“ _Merlin_!”

Front and centre, like the bulge in the royal underpants, which wasn’t something that any self-respecting servant should be fixated on. But Arthur’s own intriguing description of the Prince’s package was now seared upon Merlin’s brain, and although he was at least half sure that the prince must have been bragging, he couldn’t help it. Was Arthur exaggerating? Was it hyperbole? Or was the Prince’s cock indeed a mighty member?

“MERLIN! Stop daydreaming and get on with it,” said Arthur, sharply.

“Mm?” Merlin knew he shouldn’t be looking _down there_ while he was tying the laces on Arthur’s breeches. Courtly etiquette held that personal servants should keep their gaze averted during the more intimate moments of dressing and undressing and bathing. But Merlin never had been that good at courtly etiquette. So he kept on gawking while he absently fiddled with the laces, and tried not to drool. “Oh, sorry.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Arthur grabbed Merlin’s shoulders and gave him a little shake as the ties loosened themselves, sending the breeches hurtling to the floor in an arresting heap. “What’s on earth’s got into you recently? You’re as much use as a wet weekend.”

“Sorry, just a bit tired. Maybe I need a day off?”

Yawning ostentatiously, Merlin dragged his gaze away from Arthur’s crotch area, with some considerable effort, and blinked a few times before bending to pick up the offending breeches, dragging them up Arthur’s mighty thighs with a lingering moment in which he took the opportunity to sneak a quick glance at the tight muscles that lay beneath the skin. And if, while he was kneeling on the bare flags for a moment or two, fumbling with the laces, he couldn’t resist peeking _front and centre_ , because damn it, Arthur’s smallclothes were now at eye level, and a faintly masculine scent and heat radiated from them and, well, Merlin was only human. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t.

His mouth dropped open even more. God. Arthur hadn’t been exaggerating at all, it turned out. His cock was bloody magnificent, and most definitely interested. A force of nature, to be sure, its majestic outline pressing proud and princely against his smallclothes. It was a wonder the breeches had fallen down at all, without being hooked on it. And clearly something had got Arthur worked up, for his cock to be all engorged and firm like that. He must be uncomfortable.

Merlin’s fingers paused in their work for a second, a mere fraction of an inch away. It would be so easy just to let them stop and just _touch_ , to help ease Arthur’s immediate discomfort...

“Well. Um. What?” said Arthur, a couple of heartbeats later, his voice coming out a little bit hoarse. “What. Um. What did you say?”

Merlin looked up. “A, um.” What had he been talking about again? “I was. I asked. I mean. Um. A day off? Sire?”

“Oh.” Arthur harrumphed, adding, in more decisive tones, “I mean to say… You’ll take a day off when I say you can. Merlin. Now sort these laces out.”

“Sire.”

Giving himself a mental shake, Merlin focused on the laces. Don’t look at the bulge, he told himself sternly. Don’t look at the bulge. Don’t look at it! His eyes had started to water a bit from _not looking_ , but with an enormous effort of will he managed to make them focus on the laces. Ah now he could see what the problem was; one lace had become disengaged from the fabric. Merlin concentrated on re-threading it, letting his tongue drift out as it always did while he was trying to focus on something fiddly.

“Dear God. Come _on_ Merlin.” Arthur was breathing hard, his fists balled by the side of his hips. And the bulge, dear God, was Merlin imagining things, or was it getting even larger? _Don’t look at it!_.

“Are you all right?” said Merlin. Ah! The thread was just right, now. “You’re sounding a bit hoarse, today. Do you want me to get one of Gaius’s tinc--”

“If you ask me if I want one of Gaius’s tinctures again,” Arthur growled. “I swear I will put you in the stocks myself and spank you until your little bottom is raw.”

Spank? The mental vision should not Merlin’s own already attentive cock stiffen like that.

“All done.” Merlin stood up and flashed Arthur an uncertain half-smile. _Don’t look down. Don’t look down. Don’t look down._ Merlin backed away, his hands in front of him, bowing as low as he could to disguise his growing groinal embarrassment. “I’ll just…”

“Please do.”

*

From time to time, Merlin fantasized about telling Arthur about his magic. One day the time would come, and on that day, Merlin would kneel at his king’s feet like a supplicant, neck bared, and all the painful truths would come flooding out. Afterwards, after perhaps a little bit of a rant and some yelling and some threats, finally Arthur would pick Merlin up with one hand, hurl him onto his bed face down, and fuck him good and proper with that perfect, huge cock of his. The one that Merlin had peeked at through Arthur’s smallclothing, its growing outline so close that Merlin could smell the musky scent of Arthur’s arousal. Arthur would shout “you’re mine, Merlin, forever mine.” And Merlin would reply, in the throes of ecstasy promoted by the brutal and hopefully relentless pounding that he would be getting from his king’s massive cock, “Yes, yes, Arthur, I’m yours forever.”

As fantasies went, Merlin thought it was quite a good one. He might even write it down.

But one of the key parts of that fantasy was Merlin’s ability to state, quite truthfully, that he had only ever used his magic _for_ Arthur, and never actually _on_ him. Which meant that he absolutely could not give into the temptations that assaulted him daily. It was therefore with a growing and purely self-inflicted sense of torture that Merlin found himself alone in Arthur’s chambers many times each day during the course of his duties. At such times, sometimes, just sometimes, the temptation to use his magic to unlock Arthur’s Magic Drawer of Porn became so overwhelming that it made his fingers tingle. But he couldn’t give in to it. Besides being a gross betrayal of trust, it would destroy his already slender ability to produce an acceptable, truthful answer to Arthur’s inevitable questions about his magic.

So he would clean, wipe and polish that damned desk to within an inch of his life but never once did he allow his magic to act as it wished and sneak into the keyhole to give the lock a little tweak. It would be so easy! But, no.

Merlin’s luck finally changed one day when he was cleaning Arthur’s chambers up after breakfast and Uther sent Arthur an urgent summons. In his haste to obey his father’s command, Arthur rushed out, forgetting in his haste to don the chain that bore the key to his writing desk.

With shaking fingers, and a glance towards the door, Merlin inserted the key. He opened the drawer and rummaged among the papers lurking within, retrieving one penned in a hand that he recognised. Placing it upon the desk, he straightened it. _The Prince and His Servant Part II,_ he read _. By Gana Drutherporn_

Bingo! Merlin sat down and started to read.

 

 

>  
> 
> ~o~
> 
> _**The Prince and His Servant Part II** _
> 
> _By Gana Drutherporn_
> 
> ~o~
> 
> _“Please sire,” begged the beautiful blushing boy, his wanton eyes flashing vivid blue by the light of the moon. “You’re so big. Fuck me with your humungous organ, oh master. Please!”_
> 
> _“Alas, dear Merlin,” purred the Prince, primly. “I fear for your health. The size of my equipment is such that an injury would surely ensue. T’would ill behoove me to assault you thus.”_

Holy fuck. Merlin had seen the semi-hard outline of Arthur’s cock. It filled his dreams nightly. Fully erect, Arthur must be massive. Just the thought of it made Merlin’s own cock fill so fast he thought he might black out from blood loss to his brain. With a sharp intake of breath, he shoved his hand down behind the waistline of his braes and cupped his own cock, just cupped it, for comfort, and read on.

 

> _“_ _It’s what I want, Arthur,” said Merlin, his voice deepening to an animalistic growl. “I want to feel your love flute fill my tunnel of ecstasy. I want you to. I want it. Please. Fuck me. Hard.”_

Oh, oh, oh. It was such a close echo of his own fancies that Merlin couldn’t help it. The hand on his cock started to move. Luckily his garments were loose, and there was room to angle his hand just how he liked it as he stroked along his length slowly, eyes glued to the page. He read on, one hand steadying the paper, the other busy on his cock.

 

> _The Prince let out a gutteral grunt and swirled one probing finger around Merlin’s inviting purple pucker._
> 
> _“So pretty,” he purred. “So desperate for me. God, how I desire to…”_
> 
> _“Then do it,” murmured the pale-skinned youth. “I can take it! Pound me with your princely prick! I can take it!_

Merlin let out a little breath. So close. He was so close!

> _With a powerful groan, the prince plunged his purple pestle deep into the gaping cavern of Merlin’s passion garden._

Oh, fuck, yes! Merlin’s cock jerked in his hand and a flash of wet heat filled his braes.

But what was this? As if summoned by Merlin’s magic, Arthur’s voice was drifting in through the open doorway. Why hadn’t he closed it? What an idiot!

“...Father, I swear, my correspondence with Princess Wilhelmina is entirely innocent!” Arthur was saying. There was a distant clatter of boots upon flagstones as the voices drew closer. “There is no hint of any impropriety. We are merely undertaking a cultural exchange for the good of both our nations…”

Oh, no! Panicked, even as the aftershocks of his release were still juddering through his thighs, Merlin looked wildly around for a handkerchief or something to sort out the mess that he’d made.

“Nevertheless, Arthur, you must cease it immediately,” said Uther. “The serving staff are starting to gossip.”

They were so close. Another few strides and they would be in the room. Merlin’s heart was still racing and his limbs felt heavy and boneless. With a huge effort of will, he tugged his neckerchief off, diving into his braes with it and swirling it about unskillfully before thrusting it deep into Arthur’s waste paper basket beneath a bundle of scrunched up scrolls. He would deal with it later. With another hasty movement, he shoved the offending scroll back into the drawer. The footsteps were on the threshold now. He didn’t have time to rearrange the other pieces of parchment on top, nor to lock the drawer. As quietly as he could, he dropped the key on the desk, and scuttled over to the wardrobe, which he scanned for a suitable excuse, hastily grabbing a pair of dress boots.

“Of course, Father. However, do pray allow me to do her the courtesy of a farewell le-- Merlin? What are you doing here?” Arthur scowled. “Father and I are having a private conversation!”

“Arthur!” he said, faintly, holding the boots in front of the incriminating wet patch. “I mean, sire. Begging your royal highness’s pardon, sir.” He bowed at Uther. “I just. Um. You know. Need to polish these. For um. The feast. Sire?”

“What feast?” The line between Arthur’s eyes deepened as he glanced over to his desk and back before his gaze alighted on Merlin’s bare neck, where it stayed. “You’d, um.” Arthur swallowed. “Um. You’d better not have been snooping at my private correspondence.”

“No, Arthur, I would nev--” “

You will address your master correctly,” interrupted Uther. “Arthur? Punish the idle miscreant. I will talk with you in my chambers.” Scowling, he strode out of the room, his cloak swirling about him in a dramatic arc.

Merlin sighed. “I’ll just go and let myself into the stocks then, shall I, sire?”

“Um.” Arthur’s jaw twitched and his adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. “All right,” he added, in a hoarse voice, staring so hard at Merlin’s neck that he began to feel a little uncomfortable.

“Do I have a mark on my neck?” said Merlin. Against his own better judgment, he let his own gaze drift south for a second or two and tried to disguise it as a blink. Holy fuck. Arthur’s crotch was bulging as if fit to explode.

“No, no.”

Arthur blinked and folded his hands in front of his groin. He stepped hurriedly behind his desk and sat in the chair where moments before Merlin had been pulling at his cock. Dear God. What if there was a lingering smell? What if he’d left a mark? Arthur would be sitting in a pool of his seed, right now… and… oh, great. His dick was twitching again. He didn’t think that was even possible. Mortified at the direction of his wayward thoughts, Merlin took in a deep gulp of air. He felt a deep and shameful blush start at his neck and burn all the way up to the roots of his hair and along his cheeks to his ears.

“Are you all right?” Arthur was still staring at his neck. “You look a bit, um.”

“Yeah,” said Merlin, hoarsely, as he edged towards the door. With a sudden sense of alarm he remembered that he hadn’t locked the key to Arthur’s drawer. What if Arthur notices? “Actually, I do feel a bit, you know.”

“Hmm. Well. No need to go to the stocks, Merlin. I’m not to be disturbed for a bit. I’ll just… ahem. Correspondence, you know.” Arthur fumbled for the key to the desk drawer with one hand. Oh no. Oh no! But what was this? The other hand was disappearing beneath his desk. There was a small sound, like that of a belt buckle being loosened, and another, like that of a held breath being released in a hastily suppressed moan. “Take your time. Don’t hurry back.” With another exhalation suspiciously close to a groan, Arthur opened the drawer.

“Right,” said Merlin, trying and failing not to think about what Arthur might be going to do next - and what’s more, what he might be going to think about while he was doing it. “Correspondence. Right.”

God. He hoped Gaius was out.

He needed to lie down.

*

Merlin woke in a cold sweat, his heart hammering against his rib cage. After another glorious wank in his own room, he’d drifted off into an even more delightful long sleep, which was all very well but... he'd forgotten all about the incriminating neckerchief! Let alone the unlocked drawer!

But the bell hadn’t yet rung for breakfast. With any luck he could get to Arthur’s room before he woke up. The key he could probably talk his way out of, but he had to retrieve the neckerchief before Arthur found it. Or worse, George. 

He threw on his clothes. Darting out of the door before Gaius could give him any errands to do, he scurried through the most obscure corridors of Camelot, seeking to avoid being waylaid. But of course fortune could not allow him this one thing. Of course it couldn’t. Instead, just as he rounded the final corner, within sight of Arthur’s chambers, it forced him into the arms of an eager-looking Morgana and Gwen, sitting together upon a window seat, giggling.

“Merlin!” Gwen sprang to her feet with a broad smile. “Just the person!”

“Um. Whatever it was, I didn’t do it.” he said, gaze darting hopefully from one to the other and then to the door that awaited him. He could see it, a mere thirty or so feet away! The bell still hadn’t rung. Arthur would not be up yet. If he was quick, he could still get there in time.

“Come, Merlin.” Morgana’s expression was innocent, which meant that she was up to something. “Sit with me and Gwen.”

“What?” Oh, God! “Erm, can’t stop, I’ve just got to…”

“Oh, just for a minute or two, Merlin!” Gwen sat back down again, shuffling over to one side. She patted the window seat between her and Morgana. “We never get a chance to chat.”

“But Arthur will be w…”

“Don’t worry about him, he won’t be awake yet!” Morgana smiled sweetly at him, and grabbed him by the arm, leaving him no option but to sit down. “And that’s just what we wanted to talk to you about. Arthur! He does seem terribly distracted, of late, don’t you think? Since Wilhelmina left.”

“N...n...no?” stuttered Merlin, one leg jiggling, betraying his eagerness to complete his quest. He shrugged, trying to think of a gracious way of escaping. “The usual clotpoleishness, if you ask me. Clean the stables, _Mer_ lin. Polish my armour, _Mer_ lin… you know. Anyway, I’ll just, um...” He started to struggle to his feet.

“There’s no hurry,” said Gwen. A gentle hand on each arm - Morgana on his right, Gwen on his left - pulled him down. He was trapped! He stared miserably out of the window at a poor soul who was currently occupying the stocks. As Jesmond, a particularly swift-armed stable boy, lobbed an over-ripe cabbage at the wrongdoer’s head, he felt a stab of fellow feeling. “He spends all his time writing to Wilhelmina, doesn’t he?” Gwen tilted her head on one side. Like an eagle. Eyeing its prey. A very soft, kind, innocent-faced but nonetheless hungry eagle. “But whenever anyone asks him, he says he’s writing poetry.”

“He does?” Merlin plastered a grin to his face in an effort to look nonchalant, because, dear God, if Morgana got hold of one of Arthur’s *ahem* poems, neither of them would ever live it down. He would have to leave Camelot. “Maybe he’s developed a passion for it?”

Of course, if those incriminating scrolls were ever found, Arthur would probably have to leave Camelot, too. They’d both have to go and live in Caerleon or something. Arthur could make a living as a hired sword, and Merlin could grow things and take care of all the household problems. And at night, Arthur would come home and eat a simple meal with him, and then they’d spend all night shagging like bunnies.

Actually that didn’t sound too bad, although at some point his speculation had veered far, far away from the land of logical consequence and gone hurtling off across the border into a shimmering, magical realm of abject fantasy. Which wasn’t a place that he should ever visit when Morgana and Gwen were present. Because the combination of Morgana’s acerbic wit and Gwen’s penetrating insight into the human psyche was not one that any self-respecting manservant should have to face when under the influence of a massive man-crush on his infuriatingly rugged-jawed employer. But no matter how gratifyingly his idle fantasies played out, there was no doubt that Morgana would make their lives a living hell if she knew what Arthur was actually writing about. So her sudden interest was A Bad Thing.

“Oh, please, Merlin. Don’t insult our intelligence,” Morgana was saying. “I had to suffer lessons with Arthur as a child. He’s as imaginative as a boar, with an even more limited vocabulary--”

“He asked me if I knew any other words for purple, beginning with p, yesterday,” added Gwen. “When I suggested puce, he looked like he’d sucked a lemon. Not that Arthur sucks lemons, but you know the look, or rather, I don’t mean that he often looks sour, of course not, haha, but anyway, you’d have thought that I got a wine stain on his favourite shirt. Not that I drink wine, of course!”

“Of course you don’t, Gwen,” murmured Morgana, in a cooing sort of voice.

“Um. But then I suggested plum coloured,” Gwen went on. “Which is a bit weird when you think about it, because plums can be all sorts of colours, of course, although I think we all know when we say plum coloured that we mean a sort of purplish plum, not the red sort, or the green ones, which I always think taste a bit icky…”

“Too sharp,” agreed Morgana, stroking Merlin’s forearm. It was like being petted by a kitten. All soft and kind, but you never knew when the jagged claws would come out.

“Anyway.” Gwen patted Merlin’s hand. “He just looked sort of thunderstruck, muttered ‘ _Plums! Of course!_ ’ And ran off.”

Plums? Oh, God. Merlin swallowed, hard, and tried to extricate himself from their gentle grip, without much success. They were strong, these maidens, with their deceptively smooth hands and sweet smiles. With one hand on each forearm, he was effectively pinioned.

“We’re worried about him, Merlin,” said Morgana. An earnest line appeared between her brows. It didn’t fool him for a second. This wasn’t concern. This was sheer nosiness. “A knight of Camelot does not need to be distracted by stone fruit-related obsessions. What if he starts going on about peaches in the middle of a battle?”

“Or greengages,” added Gwen, who also seemed to be unnaturally inquisitive about the topic. What happened to sympathy for fellow, downtrodden servants? She was meant to be on his side! He flashed her a betrayed glare, but she went on without noticing. “Or… or… quince. Or maybe vegetables? He might start going on about purple cabbages or something. Much though I love purple cabbage. Or are they called red cabbage? I’ve never understood that. I have always thought they look more purp--”

“Anyway,” interrupted Morgana. “Won’t you keep an eye open for us, Merlin?” She fluttered her lashes at him. “We just want to help him. Please. For Arthur.”

“Arthur’s absolutely fine,” he said firmly. “He doesn’t need any help. And he’s got a perfectly healthy attitude towards um. You know, apples and… and… cherries and what-not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll just…”

With a clever twist of his body, he moved out from under their grasping hands and stood up. Then promptly ducked to escape Morgana’s flailing hand, and darted for Arthur’s door. He skidded to a halt outside, the two guards stationed there nodding at him.

There was a loud clang.

Damn, he was too late. The morning bell was tolling its jangling song, rousing the citadel to break its fast.

“Merlin!” came the imperious shout from within.

He groaned. Too late.

*

 

Thankfully, the prince was too busy glaring and throwing pillows to pay the slightest bit of attention to Merlin’s tardiness, nor to the contents of the waste paper basket. Finally, once Arthur had departed, muttering something about the morning’s training, Merlin had a moment to search for his neckerchief.

It was lucky for Merlin that none of the other servants ever emptied Arthur’s waste paper basket. Normally Merlin just tossed the contents on the fire. But this time he wanted to retrieve his neckerchief first. So he dived into the basket, pulling out a handful of scrunched up scrolls, coated in Arthur’s handwriting. He tossed them to the floor before delving back in. But there was no sign of his soiled neckerchief.

Puzzled, Merlin upended the bin. He distinctly remembered thrusting his neckerchief into it after he’d… well. So, where could it be? Maybe Arthur had asked George to come in and tidy up? God, he hoped not. George would probably have tossed his neckerchief into the fire along with all the papers. And Merlin loved that neckerchief, despite what Gaius always said about it being tatty and rag-eared. His mother had sewed it for him, and it kept his neck warm, and served as a cleaning rag _in extremis_.

But it wasn't there. 

With a sigh, he gathered up the discarded parchments and was about to chuck them onto the merry fire when the word “purple” on one of them caught his eye. Wait. Well. It wouldn’t hurt to take a quick peek, now, would it? He smoothed the first one over and peered at it in the flickering firelight.

 

> _“Mark me, oh my prince,” panted the servant, his hair an ink-black fan, his neck a long, luscious canvas ready for the prince to leave possessive, ~~purple~~ plum-coloured prints, as patterns of passion like ~~jewels~~ pearls upon his person. “Bite me! I want to feel your porcelain teeth upon my needy flesh!” Raising his head, he howled out a hollow cry that made the prince’s engorged cock fill, aching with need._

Wow. Merlin knew how he felt. His own cock was already growing hot and heavy between his thighs just from reading it. With some regret, he tossed the scrunched-up parchment onto the waiting fire, which flared and hissed to welcome it, then turned to the second scroll. He was about to throw it on as well, but a sudden devilish instinct paused his hand and he opened it up instead. It was full of crossings out.

 

> _~~Merlin’s~~ Arthur’s balls hung like bright berries, bursting with seed. How ~~Arthur~~ Merlin longed to suck them between his lips. With parted lips, the servant laved his prince’s pendulous plums, worshipping them with languid licks of his ~~velvet~~ lithe little tongue…_

Gods have mercy. With a groan, Merlin palmed his now aching cock through the fabric of his clothes. How he would love to get his mouth on Arthur's _pendulous plums_. Just the thought made him salivate.

But wait. Were those footsteps outside? Not again! If Merlin’s face had felt any hotter, it would start to steam.

He made a hasty decision. He thrust the partly read scroll into his breeches, telling himself that he would burn it later, and righted the upended waste-paper basket, returning it to its place by the desk. But it was too late. He was still kneeling next to it when Arthur pushed open his door.

Oh.

When Merlin looked up, the prince was standing in the doorway, his arm propped up against the frame, glaring down at him with that imperious stare that always had such an immediate effect on Merlin’s equilibrium that he could hardly breathe.

“This had better be good,” said Arthur, folding his arms and crossing his legs. “Because it looks suspiciously like you are going through my bin.”

“Um. Well, you see, I can explain. Gwen said you were looking for vocabulary help, so I thought I’d. Um. But then there was a mouse, and I… Anyway. I’ll just...Oh! There it goes!” Straightening, he pointed at a random corner of the room before starting to sidle around the desk. “Mouse! See? Anyway, I'll just... you know, empty the bin, and then…”

“Are you sure?” Arthur launched himself from the doorframe, hurtling towards Merlin with all the inevitability and intent of a stone from a ballista. “Are you sure you weren’t looking for something, _Mer_ lin?”

With an undignified squeak, Merlin tried to scuttle around the desk to safety, but he was off balance. Arthur managed to tackle him onto a rug upon the ground where he sat, straddling Merlin’s hips.

With his trunk pinned between Arthur’s sturdy thighs, there wasn’t much Merlin could do except thrash around, squawking about bullies and prats, while Arthur smirked down at him with that infuriating lop-sided grin of his. Of course, he could overpower the prat with just a thought, but not without risking imprisonment and certain execution, so instead he howled out his protests while Arthur held him down by the shoulders. Grinning. Gorgeous, egotistical git.

“You see,” drawled Arthur, seemingly immune to every frantic jerk of Merlin’s legs beneath him. “Stop struggling, you oaf! You see, I found something in my waste paper basket that might belong to you. But it appears to have been ill used.”

“Let me go,” yelled Merlin. “You arrogant, overbearing, supercilious…”

“And,” interrupted Arthur. “In sore need of laundering.”

With an abrupt noise, Merlin let his booted feet drop to the floor and blinked up at Arthur, face colouring. He licked his lips and rummaged frantically in his brain for an excuse.

“About that,” he said at last. “I was - it’s just - there was a. I mean, obviously I couldn’t just…” he trailed off, biting his lip. “Um.”

“And then there’s the matter of my drawer full of extremely personal writing,” Arthur said. “Which I am sure was locked, when I left the room. And yet, upon my return, I found it unlocked.”

“What are you saying?” asked Merlin, hoarsely.

“I’m saying, you blundering bumpkin,” growled Arthur, looking unfairly composed given the position that they were both in. “That you could have been a bit less obvious about reading my… ahem… notes. But instead you left the drawer open, and deposited incriminating _evidence_ in the bin.”

“Evidence?” Oh, God. Arthur had found the scarf. And seen the stains. And Arthur, being—despite what Merlin might mutter under his breath at least ten times a day—gifted with at least some intellectual powers, had drawn probably correct conclusions about their source.

“Your scarf, Merlin.”

“Um.” Merlin tried to think of something clever that might explain the scarf and the state that it was in. But with all that muscle and heat pressing him into the rug, it was very difficult for his brain to do anything much except make little zings of pleasure go darting into his legs and belly, converging on the sort of sudden erection that had explosive potential to confirm all Arthur’s worst assumptions. “It’s just, you know. Um. I felt hot, you know? Haha. Warm in here. Must have got a bit. You know.” He coughed. “Sweaty?”

And Gods. What the hell did Arthur think he was _doing_? Tilting his head back like that as he laughed, so that Merlin could see every exposed sinew in Arthur’s throat, trace them down to the open neck of his shirt where a tantalising vee of rose-gold skin emerged. There was a bead of sweat upon Arthur's neck. it glistened in the sunlight that streamed through the window. Merlin could just imagine its salty tang upon his tongue.

Instinctively Merlin’s hips flexed, pressing the painful weight of his cock up against the overwhelming heat of Arthur’s thickly muscled thigh, and, oh, no, ugh, Gods, no! This could not be happening. It was now or never. If he was to escape this humiliation, Merlin would have to get out from under the prince as soon as possible. Otherwise he was going to come in his pants like a horny teenager and would never live down the embarrassment.

Imbuing every muscle with all the strength that he could muster, Merlin bucked beneath Arthur, twisting this way and that. All to no avail. The prince’s strength and weight were too great for him. And, god, that was a turn on, all that heat and ego, all focused on Merlin’s hypersensitised body. Merlin’s cock was straining, eager and hard against his clothing.

He whimpered and went limp. Well, most of him went limp, anyway. Save for one part. One very critical part.

“And what am I to surmise from that?” Arthur went on, still in that low, gravelly voice that bypassed Merlin’s brain and instead spoke straight to his embarrassingly eager cock, making it twitch insistently, as if to remind him of its confinement and need for release.

God. Arthur _must_ have been able to feel the effect that he was having on Merlin. The absolute tease. But maybe the effect was reciprocated? Merlin risked letting a glance dart down Arthur’s crotch, where those powerful thighs gripped his bony hips, and confirmed his wild surmise. God! The prince’s prick was bloody enormous. He could see it outlined like a delicious, thick extra limb through Arthur’s leather trousers. Before he could stop himself, Merlin let out a tiny whine, high and pathetic at the back of his throat.

“Well?”

“I don’t know, sire,” said Merlin, hoarsely, still staring. He licked his lips. He would love to taste…

“Oh, fuck it,” said Arthur breathlessly, and bent forward to capture Merlin’s lips with his own. The next thing Merlin knew, Arthur was sliding their tongues together with a filthy enthusiasm that was brilliant and glorious and made Merlin’s eyes roll back in sheer pleasure and his toes curl to grip at the base of his boots.

“Mmmm!” Merlin moaned into Arthur’s mouth, giving in to the rhythmic tilt of his hips against Arthur’s in a sweet, economical movement that was at once both too much and also, frustratingly, not quite enough. So he released himself from the kiss, brought his mouth up against the rough stubble of Arthur’s chin and tilted throat, sucked, tasting the salt-sweat slick of Arthur’s skin, and came with a shout.

“Hmm.” Arthur’s breath was a faint tickle, cool against Merlin’s sweaty neck. “Needy. Horny. Prone to coming in your pants. Just what I thought.”

Leaning forward to apply his mouth with some force to Merlin’s once more, Arthur rolled his hips, grinding the thick heat of his cock against Merlin’s hip, his breath coming in heavy gasps.

Merlin, too dazed to reply, merely nodded, waiting for the mad yammering of his pulse to settle. His hand came up to cup the curves of Arthur’s arse, and he let out another faint moan at the sensation of Arthur’s flexing muscles beneath his palms.

“God.” Arthur went on. “You minx. Driving me half mad with your lips and your gods-damned neck. I know now why you keep that tatty old rag on. It’s an offensive weapon, your neck. All white and easily bruised like that.”

“Oh, God, Arthur,” gasped Merlin. “Why don’t you just bloody well get on with it and fuck me?”

Arthur’s rhythm faltered and his face took on a sort of half-surprised, half-pained expression. A line appeared between his brows. He stilled, breath coming in heavy spurts.

“That,” Arthur gasped, slumping forward onto Merlin’s chest, shoulders heaving. “Might have to wait for a few minutes.”

“Did you just…?” Merlin grinned madly at the ceiling. An impish part of him felt like singing. He'd made Arthur come. In his pants! Ha! 

“Um. Maybe. But I will never, ever admit it.” Arthur rolled off and turned so that he was leaning on one elbow, his other hand curled possessively around Merlin's hip. He gave Merlin a soft-eyed, teasing smile that made his insides sort of melt a little. “Now, are you going to show me what you’ve got in your pants?”

“I might,” said Merlin, returning the smile with an expression that he hoped was not too doe-eyed or coy. “If you ask nicely.”

“The reason I ask is that you were rustling. Down there When we, erm. You know.” Arthur tilted his head towards Merlin’s groin.

“Rustling?” Merlin looked down at the crumpled, stained area of his breeches, and let out an an undignified squawk when he saw a corner of parchment poking out. Oh, no! It was the scrunched-up, scribbled-on leaf that he’d shoved down down his trousers when he was in throes of his earlier funk.

With a smug expression, Arthur tugged at it, extracting an extremely smeared, ink-stained parchment. He held it by his thumb and forefinger. As they watched, a drop of Merlin’s seed dribbled down the page, gathering ink that blackened it as it dropped, and came to rest in a pile of inky gloop upon Merlin’s already ruined breeches.

Merlin’s humiliation was complete. He swallowed, cheeks no doubt taking on a shade that Arthur could describe through any manner of fruit-related similes.

“Now that,” Arthur drawled, his mouth tugging up on one side, “is what I call a positive review.”

 

 

*END*

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Not my characters, I'm not getting paid.


End file.
